


Push/Pull

by thistidalwave, Verbyna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety Disorder, Codependency, Hockey, Identity Issues, M/M, Overdosing, Soul Bond, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at Kent and feels nothing, if nothing feels like a shattered rib cage, all the protection around his heart gone. Kent is right in front of him, his hair falling into his face and his hands clenched in the sheets, but if Jack closes his eyes, Kent could be anywhere. </p>
<p>(or, Jack and Kent can’t keep their bond if they both want to play in the NHL.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push/Pull

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to our lovely betas, jedusaur and blamefincham!
> 
> rip kpcc xoxo.

i.

Jack finds Kent leaning against the side of the building just outside the movie theatre doors, his phone in hand. He looks up when Jack approaches and flips his phone shut, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. “Zimms,” he says in greeting, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. It’s half-smirk, half-grin, and everything Jack would like to live inside. 

“Hey,” Jack says. He resists the urge to hug Kent and let their bond envelop them entirely so he doesn’t have to think anymore. Instead, he looks up and down the street, self-conscious, and cuffs Kent in the shoulder. Kent’s smirk grows.

“Was that your dad?” he asks, his gaze flicking over Jack’s shoulder.

Jack looks behind him, but his dad’s truck has long since pulled away. “Yeah.”

“What’s he doing here?” Kent asks. The smirk is abruptly gone. 

Jack opens his mouth, then shuts it. He does want to tell Kent about the meeting he just had with his dad and agent and the Aces’ GM, all of them in town just for Jack, but he also knows that Kent doesn’t want to hear it. 

It’s been less than a week since they lifted the Memorial Cup, and there’s less than a month until they’ll be drafted to the NHL. They’re not talking about either of those things, because they’re both signs of an ending neither of them wants to face. 

From the very first time they skated together, the first time Jack sent the puck across the ice and it landed right on Kent’s tape just like he knew it would, they’ve been in sync. It’s not just a fortunate combination of good hockey sense and chemistry like the media says, but a proper bond, the kind people get in life-or-death situations. They’re not firefighters or soldiers and neither of them have ever been in immediate danger, but sometimes when Jack steps out on the ice he feels like it’s the two of them against the world, and then everything makes sense. 

Kent’s expression is slightly accusatory. Jack shrugs. “Just visiting,” he lies. “Should we go in?”

Kent nods, expression clear. “Yeah, I want to get food before we sit down.”

Jack hovers just behind Kent, first in line for tickets and then for food. He can’t stop thinking about endings, wondering if this is the last time they’ll go to the movies together, if this is the last time he’ll see Kent wear that shirt. It’s stupid; they might have to break their bond so that the NHL will allow them to play on opposing teams, but they don’t have to stop being friends. 

They might, though. They probably will. Kent’s not going to have any use for Jack anymore. He’ll be happy to not be the one protecting Jack for once. He probably thinks Jack won’t need him; Jack hopes so, because that means his careful front is working. 

Jack reminds himself yet again that at least he’s had the past two years.

His hands are shaking, his palms sweaty. He thinks about ducking into the bathroom to take a pill. He presses two fingers to the inside of Kent’s wrist instead. Kent doesn’t look away from the menu. He doesn’t move away, either. He seems to turn toward Jack slightly, but it's so subtle Jack might be imagining it. The bond tingles like a happy sigh where their skin touches. 

Jack wishes he wanted nothing more than hockey. He wishes he knew how to be alone. 

Kent buys Junior Mints and popcorn, and he hands the popcorn to Jack to carry. As soon as they’re sitting down in the back row of the theatre, Kent shakes the box of Junior Mints at Jack. “None for you,” he says, even though he knows that they’re Jack’s favourite. He flashes a wide, obnoxious smile that makes Jack’s heart skip. 

“Kenny,” Jack complains. 

Kent snickers. “Fine, you big baby, trade me.” 

Jack does, and they both settle into their seats, their shoulders pressed against each other. Jack closes his eyes, soaking in the feeling. He doesn’t want to be anywhere except sitting right next to Kent, and for a moment, he can pretend he never has to.

 

ii.

It’s not the reporter’s fault.

Kent finishes the radio interview and accepts a bottle of water on the way out of the studio. His car was parked in the shade, but he’s been in there for a couple of hours, so when he gets in, it’s so hot that it sucks all the moisture from his skin. He drives home carefully through game-day traffic, A/C off, eyes as dry as the rest of him.

He should feed his cat. He should drink more water. He should work out a little, have a snack, take a nap before he goes to the arena. If he got on the ice like this, he wouldn’t even keep his head up when he hit the boards.

He curls up on his bed with his cat instead. He has to conserve energy for tonight, he has to stop thinking about anything except for the game, but fuck. Fuck.

Jack didn’t even tell him he was signing to the Falconers. It’s not the reporter’s fault that Kent’s eyes won’t focus from how hard he’s reaching out to Jack.

Kent’s mom keeps calling. He imagines what the conversation would be like: she’d ask him if he knew and he’d lie, she’d ask him if he’s okay and he’d lie, she’d ask him if he’s ready for tonight and he’d lie. He doesn’t want to lie to his mom, not about this, not again, so he doesn’t pick up. He wants Jack to call him, but he’s glad when he doesn’t. Jack has clearly made a decision.

And Kent?

Kent only gets three shifts and breaks his points streak. Coach seems worried, so he makes a show of rotating the shoulder he injured last season and watching his guys like he’s taking notes for later. They win without him, then wait out the press (Kent always gets the most questions, even if he’s barely on the ice) and follow him home to celebrate.

He starts drinking as soon as someone puts a glass in his hand and doesn’t stop until he’s sick. Someone drags him to the ensuite, laughing at him, and drops him on the tiles next to the toilet. He crawls back to the door and locks it, then lets himself tilt slowly sideways until he’s lying with his face on the cold floor. When he starts to shake, he reaches up and drags a towel off the warmer, pulls it over himself, over his face so it blocks out the light.

The music and shouting on the other side of the door almost makes it feel like six years ago, when Kent didn’t know what it was like to break a bond. He’s come such a long way since then. He was doing so well, anchored by his awareness of Jack and all the things his own body can do when he pushes it. What the fuck is playing going to be like when he can only count on half of what makes him good? He dry-heaves, playing back the look on Coach’s face earlier, and wipes his face with a corner of the towel.

He mercifully passes out for a while. When he wakes up, he calls his mom. He lies to her. He doesn’t feel any better, but it’s enough to go back to the living room and play a video game with the guys.

If there’s one thing he learned from Jack, it’s how to fake normalcy until you either make it or break so hard that no one expects it from you again. He’s always been better than Jack when it comes to this, if nothing else. It got him this far.

 

iii.

It’s too cold in the basement, and the fluorescent lights are too bright. It’s better than the rest of the house, though, where it’s too hot and too dark. Real summer weather is setting in fast, and Jack’s been spending day after day growing increasingly sure that he won’t be able to survive on his own.

He keeps waking up in a cold sweat, but he can never remember what he was dreaming about save the taste of loneliness in his mouth. Tonight he woke up abruptly at two-thirty, and Kent was lying next to him asleep, breathing against his neck. Jack felt like he should be comforted by that, but he still thought he was going to be sick.

He left Kent in his bed, his head on Jack’s pillow, and came down to the makeshift gym. His heart was already racing, so he figured he’d better give it an actual reason to. Maybe if he works out for long enough, he’ll be tired enough to actually sleep soundly. It’s never worked before, but Jack has lots of experience with doing things over and over and expecting different results.

Jack sets the treadmill speed higher and tries to imagine functioning without the constant presence of the bond. Imagining it feels too much like actually cutting himself off, and for a moment he can’t breathe. He slams the stop button and stumbles off the treadmill, first trying to steady himself against the wall, and then giving up and sliding to the floor. 

It’s linoleum in the ugliest pattern Jack’s ever seen, but when he presses his cheek to it and closes his eyes, it feels like ice. Jack wishes he never had to see ice again, then immediately feels awful. He loves the ice. It’s all he’s wanted since he was barely two feet tall. More importantly, he knows that Kent has wanted it just as much and for just as long. 

Jack can’t fuck that up for either of them. They have to break the bond because they have to play in the NHL. They can’t let a little thing like this stop them, that would be stupid. (He wishes that it really was a little thing instead of something that feels like it’s crushing him. He wishes he was okay with this instead of just pretending to be.)

The sound of the clock on the wall ticking echoes in Jack’s ears, indistinguishable from his own internal countdown. He’s already on the floor, so he starts doing situps. He counts them and doesn’t think.

 

iv. 

Of all the things that Kent gave up to play hockey before he was drafted, Jack was supposed to be the hardest. Neither of them talked about not breaking the bond back then, because hockey came first. If hockey didn’t come first, there wouldn’t have been a bond in the first place.

The hardest part wasn’t giving Jack up; it was not being able to let him go. It was Kent going to training camp when Jack didn’t. It was the Zimmermanns telling him that Jack didn’t want to talk to him every night until Kent gave up talking and focused on the bond instead, like a lifeline, because he only ever felt safe when Jack put him first.

He still dreams about his first year in the NHL sometimes. He looks happy in the pictures, but he was mostly drunk on booze or victory or both. Up until he got the C, he thought he’d be sent down after every bad shift, and then Jack’s ruined career would have been for nothing. One of them had to make it, no matter what.

They won another game tonight; they’re down 3-2 in the series, so they’ve got a shot at making it into the final again. Kent’s sitting on his bed, watching highlight videos on his iPad. When he reaches his, he tosses the iPad to the bottom of the bed and lies down with his eyes closed to listen.

What would Jack’s career have been like if they’d known how to do this when they were younger? Maybe it would’ve been better than Kent’s. He might’ve made captain in one year instead of two or broken more franchise and conference records. They would’ve been tied for the Calder until the last minute, squaring off on the ice, had the press speculating about their rivalry.

Ken’t mom told him that he’s always been sure of what he wanted; but she also said, when Kent was at a different frat house every weekend, that Jack messed him up. He can’t tell her that it was the other way around: Kent never wavered, but Jack— 

Jack taught Kent to drink like he means it. He taught Kent that it doesn’t have to be him against the world, him alone at the top of the world, and that it never lasts, neither the company nor the view from above. Kent couldn’t let him go. He tried his hardest, and it wasn’t enough to make up for a lifetime of wanting and fighting and getting his way.

He’s not sure he can let Jack go now, either. He’s had six years of playing because Jack couldn’t. He doesn’t know how to play for himself. He can’t remember what it was like before Jack, but he can’t deny him the chance to be the NHL legend he was meant to be.

Not again.

He just doesn’t know how to let Jack go without losing everything else in the process. He doesn’t trust either of them anymore. He’s never trusted both of them at the same time, but now he can’t rely on Jack to be safe somewhere far from the pressure Kent deals with every day, and he sure as hell can’t count on himself not to fuck up without Jack to keep him going.

 

v. 

Jack is drunk enough that his eyes are no longer cooperating with him. It’s not helping at all with playing Halo, which Jack barely understands sober, but he squints at the screen (two screens? no, no, just one) and determinedly mashes buttons anyway. He thinks maybe he’s winning. 

“I’m winning!” Kent declares from the other end of the couch. 

Jack frowns. “No,” he says. 

“Yes,” Kent says. He’s probably right, but Jack kicks him in the shin anyway. Kent laughs and kicks back.

Jack loses and throws his controller onto the other couch, where someone else picks it up. “I hate video games,” he says.

“I know,” Kent says. He lets one of their (now ex, and isn’t that a trip) teammates tap into the game and crawls across the couch to lie on top of Jack. Jack makes a show of complaining about Kent being too heavy, pretending to throw him off but actually tightening his grip on Kent’s hip. Kent giggles and presses a finger to Jack’s lips. “Shhhhh, you.” 

Jack raises an eyebrow like he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t. There’s still a loud as hell house party happening around them, but for all he cares, they may as well be alone. Kent is more stoned than drunk, his eyes slightly red and a permanent lazy smile on his face, and Jack feels caught by his stare, like if he moves he’ll ruin something.

Jack thinks for the thousandth time about how much he likes it when the bond tells him that Kent is right there. He doesn’t need it to when he can see and smell and touch Kent, but it does anyway. It’s reassuring, a constant comfort that’s entirely different from when Kent is kilometres away and the bond is all Jack has of him. 

He wonders what it’ll be like when they’re apart and they don’t even have the bond. His heart feels like it’s shredding itself in his chest, one tiny bit at a time. 

Jack licks his too dry lips, watches Kent watching him do it. “Would you run away with me?” he asks.

“Sure,” Kent says, easy as that, too quick to be real. “Where to?” 

Jack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know. For all that all he seems to do lately is dream up new ways to hide, he doesn’t actually know how to do it. He wants to tell Kent that he’s not going to be able to break the bond, wants to tell him just how fucked up he feels, but he can’t. Or maybe he just won’t. They’re the same thing, anyway. 

“Come on,” Kent says after a moment, seeming to either not notice or not care that Jack never answered the question. He drags himself up and off Jack. “Let’s go get another drink.”

Jack follows him. Following is always easy. 

 

vi. 

They win again. Kent got more ice time today, and he managed to score twice, though only one of the goals is worth talking about. His left thigh is killing him, but there’s still enough adrenaline in his system that he enjoys the reminder.

He turns the TV on and goes to the bathroom to turn on the shower. He takes his suit off and hangs it up in the closet, then goes to stand in front of the mirror as the room fills with steam. He looks… good. He looks happy. He knows it’s just what winning looks like on him, but it’s been a while since he saw it.

After his shower, he settles in to listen to the game being dissected. His name gets brought up a lot. Bad Bob is one of the analysts, and he goes on and on about that goal, about how great Kent is doing after the fiasco in Game 4.

One of the other guys looks like he’s about to claw his face off waiting for Bob to finish singing Kent’s praises. Kent frowns and sits on the edge of the bed. He’s glad he’s sitting when the guy goes, “Parson did great, that goal was a beauty, but I have to ask you, Bob - are you worried about Jack playing against guys of Parson’s caliber next season? Do you think he’ll do well under pressure at this level?”

Kent can’t move. His heart is thumping painfully, and where does that guy get off? The fucking nerve - they don’t talk about it, no one talks about it with Bob Zimmermann, no one asks Kent anymore. Of course they fucking worry. Of course they can’t talk about it on national television.

Bob looks like he wants to deck the guy, but he’s been dealing with this shit for longer than Kent’s been alive. He leans back in his chair, relaxed except for his hands.

“Jack’s never been in better shape, mentally or physically. He’s ready to play at any level. I have complete faith in him, and so does his team.”

And because Kent’s looked up to Bad Bob his whole life, Kent believes him. Jack’s ready. They wouldn’t have let him sign if he wasn’t.

He reaches out; it’s just reflex, but once he feels Jack, he can’t unlatch. The space between them is stretching. Jack must be on a plane, and Kent doesn’t know if he can catch him again if he lets go now. He tries to do the breathing exercises he learned after Jack’s OD, but his vision’s blacking out around the edges.

He’s not ready. He was never ready. Jack is, and he’s moving further away from Kent every second. That’s all he’s been doing since the draft in Montreal, and Kent never realized, because Jack was his fixed point.

Suddenly, Kent recognizes the feeling that’s paralyzing him. He’s fucking _furious._

Jack called earlier to wish Kent luck in the game and set up a meeting. Kent’s so angry at him that he wishes he’d told him how much he’s looking forward to finally kicking his ass. He’ll wait until after the series is won to break the bond, because he won’t fuck up his own team after Jack. His rival, Jack, who’s apparently ready to face him.

Kent doesn’t remember going to the bathroom, but it feels good to sweep everything off the counter and watch it bounce against the wall. The marine scent and the steam make him nauseous. That was the shower gel Jack used when they were kids and always in each other’s space, mouths and hands and hips all lined up like they didn’t know what was coming. Kent didn’t know, but Jack _did._ Jack knows exactly what he’s asking for.

The Aces won’t play against the Falconers in the postseason unless they’re the last two teams standing. That’s over a year away.

Even if that’s why Jack chose to play in a different conference, Kent can’t forgive him for playing at all at this point in their lives. He understands; of all people, of course Kent understands, but he can’t forgive Jack for doing this without giving Kent a chance to prepare himself. This time it might be Kent who can’t make it through the attempt to break the bond. Jack took that chance. (Jack is willing to risk him, so Jack trusts him to deal with it.)

Kent doesn’t calm down and fall asleep until Jack’s plane lands. He promises himself he’ll stop caring. He has to. He’ll win the series first, because hockey is why they’re doing this to themselves, to each other, but then he’ll figure out who Jack became when Kent wasn’t looking.

If Kent’s lucky, it might be someone he still likes. If not, he’ll be a fucking privilege to play against. This is bigger than both of them.

 

vii. 

It’s a nice day, not raining and not scorching, so Kent’s decided they should go for a walk. He seems overly hyped up today, bouncing around and talking a mile a minute about nothing in particular, and it’s making everything seem a little unreal to Jack. His current mental pace is glacially slow.

They’re by the creek, Kent hopping from rock to rock at the edge, when he slips and goes down hard. It looks like he hits his head on the ground. Jack wasn’t even moving, but he feels like his breath has been knocked out of him anyway. He reaches out with the bond, but of course that doesn’t tell him anything he can’t see. 

For a second, when Kent doesn’t move, Jack imagines him being so hurt that he can’t play hockey anymore. The idea is both exhilarating and devastating. If Kent couldn’t play hockey, Jack wouldn’t have to give up the bond. But then Kent wouldn’t be able to play, and Jack thinks that would be worse. (It has to be worse, or else what are they doing this for?)

“Are you—” Jack starts, but Kent is laughing. 

“Shit, that was not fucking smooth,” he says. “My jeans are gonna be ruined, damn it.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so _stupid_ ,” Jack says, shaken and unable to come up with a better insult. “Fuck, I thought you hit your head.” 

“Nah,” Kent says, clambering to his feet. “Aw, Zimms, were you worried?” 

If he’s honest, Jack worries about Kent all the time. Mostly he worries about how Kent is going to handle the NHL, which is stupid, because Kent is an amazing player and ten times more charming on camera than Jack to boot. He can handle himself. Jack is the one that’s silently falling apart under the pressure that Kent doesn’t even seem to feel. 

But Jack worries anyway. He can’t be the only one who needs protecting. Kent is going to go second in the draft, and what if his team can’t get its shit together even with a star player? What if Jack going first means Kent goes to a team that doesn't need him as much, and he languishes in the minors? What if it means Kent ends up playing third-line minutes? What if it means that Kent spends his career being worn down? Kent puts his everything into the game, and Jack worries that someday he’s going to lose the fire in his eyes and become the dead-eyed version of himself that he is after losses. 

None of that was what Kent meant, though, and besides that, “No,” Jack says. “I don’t need to worry about your sorry ass.” 

Kent snorts and rolls his eyes. “Nice to know you care.” 

“Maybe don’t fall over again,” Jack amends. 

“Might need you to help me with that one,” Kent says, grabbing Jack’s hand. “You’ll catch me, right?” 

He’s making a joke, but Jack’s throat goes dry anyway. “Yeah,” he says, voice too soft, praying that it’s not a lie, “obviously.” 

 

viii. 

Jack looks good. It hits Kent somewhere low in his gut; Jack looks healthy, all grown up. His eyes are clearer than Kent’s ever seen them. He’s taking up all of Kent’s awareness just by standing on the other side of the room. The bond’s a taut fishing line, hook under Kent’s ribs, reeling him in. 

“Sorry it took so long to set this up,” Jack says.

Instead of saying that it was no hardship for Kent to live with the bond, he tells Jack that he was busy. The door’s still at his back. He’s leaning most of his weight on it, but it probably doesn’t show.

“Good season.”

“I know. Are we gonna talk about the weather next, Zimms?”

Jack winces and shakes his head like he’s apologizing again, but he doesn’t say it. “Let’s do this. I’ve had my side switched off since you came to the Haus. Give me a second.”

Kent doesn’t want to be here. Or, no - there’s nowhere he’d rather be than with Jack within reach, but he knows it’s the last time he’s getting this. He makes himself watch as Jack’s eyes widen and he takes a step back from Kent, then sways forward as the hook sinks in. They’re both breathing harshly, fighting themselves.

Kent’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips, watching Jack watching him. “Are we still friends after this?”

Jack just looks sad. Tired, maybe, like they’ve had this conversation a hundred times, but in the eight years they’ve known each other, Kent’s never asked a single question about what they are. He wishes he hadn’t, now. Keeping his mouth shut would’ve been the better part of valor.

“Do we even know how to be friends?” Jack asks.

He’s only being fair. They were teammates, they were (are) bonded, they fucked and shouted and flew across the country for each other, but that’s not friendship. They skipped that part.

When Kent cuts the bond, it feels like he’s cutting off a limb or cutting the tree branch from under his own feet. Like the first time he slept without a nightlight or the last time he saw his dad in the rearview of his mom’s car. He thinks, like he did back then, _I’m gonna miss him for the rest of my life._

“It’s done,” Jack says. They’re both unsteady on their feet as they walk over to the table and sit down. Jack empties two tiny bottles of whiskey into glasses and slides one in front of Kent, who knocks it back, eyes closed.

“Are we?” Kent croaks through the burn.

There’s a pause, then Jack says, “Are we what?”

Kent takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Done. Are we done?”

“Kenny-”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Kent says, in the same voice he used to tell Jack he missed him after cutting him to pieces at the Haus. He hates this voice; it’s his father’s voice, come back to haunt him. His mom and Jack both go quiet when he uses it.

“I keep trying not to want you. I keep trying to hate you, or forgive you. You’re such an asshole. Why can’t I just let you go? _Fuck._ ”

“Kent,” Jack says, sounding wrecked, and then he’s kissing Kent, no hesitation even if it’s nothing like it used to feel. Just a mouth, now, though it makes Kent’s heart beat harder. They did this to themselves. There are so many reasons to stop before they end up in bed again.

Kent doesn’t stop Jack. If neither of them broke, they earned this much.

 

ix. 

The day of the draft, Jack wakes up in a hotel room in downtown Montreal with Kent still asleep on the other side of the bed, sprawled out just like always. Jack feels an overwhelming rush of fondness for him and rolls over so he can settle against Kent’s side, forehead pressed to his shoulder. 

He’s well and truly awake now, though, all too aware of what day it is, and no amount of never wanting move from under this comforter is going to make it possible to go back to sleep. He props his chin on Kent’s shoulder and brushes Kent’s hair off his forehead. “Morning, Kenny,” he says. He waits a moment, but Kent doesn’t move, still out cold. Jack sighs. That boy could sleep through anything.

Jack rolls out of bed and puts on running clothes. It’s early, the sky still dull grey to match the relatively empty sidewalks, and Jack loops the block twice, concentrating on the movement of his body and nothing else. 

When he gets back, Kent is awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s clearly had a shower if his wet hair is any indication, but he’s still wearing last night’s t-shirt and boxers. He looks up when Jack comes in. Jack avoids his gaze and goes to get a water bottle from the fridge. He drinks half of it, and when he glances back over at Kent, Kent is still looking at him. 

“I guess we’d better do this, huh,” Kent says. 

Jack puts the cap back on his bottle and nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

He sits down next to Kent, careful to leave space between them. If he touches Kent right now, he'll never be able to do this. If he doesn't touch Kent right now, he'll always regret it. He can't make himself move. 

Kent puts his hand on Jack's thigh, and Jack has a moment to stare at it before Kent kisses him. His lips are soft, and Jack sways into it. He can’t stop thinking that this is the last time they’ll kiss like this, no matter how much he tries to concentrate on how it feels. He’s almost relieved when Kent pulls away. He’s never been good at goodbyes. 

They don’t count down or anything, but Jack can feel the moment they both withdraw from the bond. _One last no-look one-timer_ , Jack thinks hysterically, struggling to breathe and resisting the panicked urge to reach for his awareness of Kent. 

He catches his breath. He looks at Kent and feels nothing, if nothing feels like a shattered rib cage, all the protection around his heart gone. Kent is right in front of him, his hair falling into his face and his hands clenched in the sheets, but if Jack closes his eyes, Kent could be anywhere. 

Kent leaves without saying anything. Jack supposes that’s fair. They never talked anyway.

Jack goes to take a shower because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do next. He gets dressed in his suit and does up his tie, and then he stares into the mirror as he takes his pills and washes them down with the rest of his water bottle. This is Jack Zimmermann, number one NHL draft prospect, perfectly put together. He looks all wrong. 

He looks at the clock. There’s still an hour before he has to be anywhere. The room is stifling, but he’s sure leaving it wouldn’t help. He rifles through the minibar out of curiosity, then decides he doesn’t care and just picks a bottle and drinks it. It burns as it goes down, and Jack’s fingers fumble as he opens the next one. If he drinks enough, maybe he’ll start to look right. Maybe he’ll stop feeling that empty place inside him.

Five drinks in, his entire body is shaking, and he can’t remember if he took his pills. He sits down on the bed and tries to count them, spilling them across the bedside table instead. He decides he must not have and takes the pills he has clutched in his hand. He’s not entirely sure how many there are, but it’s probably enough. His water bottle is empty, so he shrugs and washes them down with whatever the drink in his hand is. 

He tries to stand, wanting to look in the mirror again, and falls back onto the bed. He still can’t stop shaking, like he’s a fault line and Kent leaving was the slight shift in the ground that triggered an earthquake. He wishes Kent hadn’t left. He wishes he’d said something. He wishes he could still feel where Kent is, because if he doesn’t know that, how is he supposed to figure out where he himself is?

The pillow on the bed smells like Kent’s hair gel. Jack drags it toward him and curls up, clinging to it. 

The last thing he remembers is starting to cry.

 

 

x (coda)

Jack watches Kent out on the ice. It’s been years since Jack saw him skate in person, but he’s just the same Parse, running drills seriously one second and laughing with his teammates the next. 

It's an optional off-season practice at the Aces Arena, an open thing that's more for PR than anything else. Kent mentioned it offhand the other day when they were talking on the phone, and Jack looked at his wide open schedule and thought _maybe_. (He had a flight booked fifteen minutes later, Kent still talking away in his ear about some movie he saw the other day.)

Now that he's here it seems—smaller, somehow. When he watched Kent on TV, it looked immense, but it's just… an arena like any other. Jack’s not sure why he thought it would be different. Sure, Kent’s face is blown up to thirty times life size on the side of the building, but even that isn’t as weird as he expected it to be. If he plays well, his own face might be on the Falconers’ arena in a year or two. 

Maybe it's that Kent was always larger than life to Jack, and so everything related to him should be as well. But Jack's starting to realize that Kent is both more and less than that. They were never friends, but Jack thinks, cautiously hopeful, that maybe they could figure out how to be. Maybe they have space for each other now that they've cleared out the place their bond was taking up. 

He still wishes he had everything figured out. He feels like he should, with college behind him and a definite NHL career ahead, but he still wakes up terrified in the middle of the night. The difference is in how he can roll over and go back to sleep now, how he knows it was just a dream and that in real life he has the tools and the support to deal with everything life throws at him. The uncertainty feels more manageable now. He can look at Kent out there on the ice and not feel like he's being torn apart all over again. 

He'd spent years clinging to Kent even when he pushed him away. He still feels a little lost, a little off-kilter, when he realizes he can't reach for the bond anymore. If he closed his eyes, he could be anywhere, in any arena in the world, and so could Kent. 

His eyes are open, though. He turns away from the ice for a moment to sign a starry-eyed blonde girl's jersey, and when he looks up again, Kent is skating toward him. He's beaming, and he raises a hand to Jack, fingers curved in his glove so it looks like a victory punch. 

Jack smiles and waves back. It does feel like they’ve won something. They were never going to be done, even when Jack feverishly wished he could let go, but it no longer feels like a death sentence. They have time for this now.


End file.
